My name is Izzy. I drink too much, am clumsier than a newborn foal, and my brain-to-mouth filter often malfunctions. My daredevil husband killed himself in a parachuting accident five years ago and my best friend Jack has decided it’s time I jump back in the dating pool. He’s perfectly happy to throw me in if I don’t listen. Just when things in the dating world start to heat up, my grandma dies. Only her knitting group of Jessica Fletcher wannabes is sure it’s murder. I’m not convinced but I’m always up for a bit of excitement as long as it doesn’t lead to a night in jail. Well, more than one night anyway. Will I miss my chance at love because I’m chasing imaginary killers? Did someone really kill grandma or am I and my merry band of geriatric thieves imagining things?

The first ‘date’ starts off well. His name is Ed. He’s not drooling or anything, is talking to me and not my boobs, and seems to be interested in my graphic design work. Maybe Jack was right after all. I need to get myself back into the dating game.

“So,” Ed says after we’ve exchanged the usual pleasantries and some small talk. He leans forward and starts to whisper. “How do you feel about whips and chains?”

Not the appropriate moment to be sipping my wine, but how could I have expected that! I choke and spit a bit of wine into Ed’s face, which seems to excite him. He wiggles his eyebrows. “I take it that’s a yes?” He asks eagerly.

“Um no. That’s a definite no. N.O.” I lift my glass and down the remainder of my wine. The bell rings and I yell loudly “Next!”

Ed looks disappointed as he walks to the next table, but I’ve got my eyes on the prize. A cocktail waitress is headed my way. I snag another glass of wine before turning to my next date. Oh dear lord! The man is older than grandma. He struggles to lower himself in the chair opposite mine.

There goes that annoying bell again. Time to put my game face on. I smile and decide that I’ll check this guy out for grandma. She could use a date. Although to be perfectly honest, I don’t remember her going out with a man – ever. There’s no time like the present.

The old man’s name is Wilbert and the five minutes pass pleasantly enough. As long as I pretend he’s dating grandma and not trying to pick me up. When the bell rings again, I rush from my chair to help Wilbert stand. I take his elbow and guide him to his next date – a girl that could be his great granddaughter.

I sit back down and gather my courage for my next winner. I try to smile at the guy across from me, really I do. But have you ever tried to smile at a man with the biggest comb over ever? Let me tell you, it’s not easy. I may be grimacing a tiny bit.

Mr. Combover leans over and leers at me. Yes, leers at me! His eyes are surgically attached to my boobs. True, I have good boobs, but maybe pay a bit of attention to the person attached to the boobs?

Finally done leering, he leans back and takes in my face. “You’re not the youngest anymore.” Really? That’s the first thing Mr. Combover is going to say?

“I could say the same about you,” I respond in my nasty voice. This voice I’d perfected from nagging my lazy ass husband.

Mr. Combover clears his throat and leans in again. I bend backwards as far as possible in my chair, but he’s undeterred. “So, I’m just gonna get this out there and not waste my time.” At this point, I should raise one eyebrow, but, as we’ve established, I can’t do that so I just stare at him. “Do you put out? ‘Cuz if not, I ain’t got time for you.”

Oh no, he didn’t. “What,” I sputter and grab for my wine glass, which I down in one go. Never said I was a classy lady.

“Do. You. Put. Out?” Yes, he really enunciates it like I didn’t understand him the first time.

Meet The Author

About D.E. Haggerty:

I was born and raised in Wisconsin, but think I’m a European. After spending my senior year of high school in Germany, I developed a bad case of wanderlust that is yet to be cured. My flying Dutch husband and I have lived in Ohio, Virginia, the Netherlands, Germany and now Istanbul. We still haven’t decided if we want to settle down somewhere – let alone where. Although I’ve been a military policewoman, a commercial lawyer, and a B&B owner, I think with writing I may have finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up. That’s assuming I ever grow up, of course. Between tennis, running, traveling, singing off tune, drinking entirely too many adult beverages, and reading books like they are going out of style, I write articles for a local expat magazine and various websites, review other indie authors’ books, write a blog about whatever comes to mind and am working on my fifth book.